hagiography

the autogeography of a no/body

Nov 22

newton's first law of motion

Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it.

Anaesthetised by drink and drugs she crawls into bed. She would be comatose, except for the thoughts that refuse an armistice to enable sleep. And what next? Masturbation to relieve some of the tedium of dependence? No. She is comfortable in her vulgar, clammy solitude. She could dream of unicorns and him and other impossible fantasies that fold like umbrellas when the storm passes as the day breaks.

He says nothing. He shows nothing. He acts nothing.

She sits writing this morbid love letter while small particles burst around her, tiny dots of lightening that interrupt the otherwise marooned mundane. They dance in front of her, brightly puncturing little holes in the fabric of her reality.

Her nose twitches and her eyes sting, but still she writes, turning this inside out. He, he? Where is he? Perhaps his bones are slumped in a chair and his mouth is open ready to receive shovelled food. She imagines the creases of his jeans folded against the skin of his legs, dark in between spaces, material against flesh, where light is lost in the normality of covering up.

Covering up? What have they covered up except for their naked wounds? Between them they have built a wall and then laughed at the perversity of it all. Literal, he is so literal, poetry annoys him because he never sees it in motion. Movement, always a movement to everything, a repulsion and propulsion towards and away from inertia. The pulse accelerates for a reason. She moves constantly, even in sleep, always her body is hankering away from stillness, her mind from peace. Sometimes she just wants him to hold her, to contain her, to stop her.

He stares at a blank TV screen. He resists the urge to do anything except stare. When his eyes are fixed his focus is determined and nothing disturbs his concentrated vision. She teases at the edge of his perception, like a ballet dancer waiting in the wings. He is resolute in his anger and rejection, but still she seems to be a butterfly.

‘Kiss me.’
‘No.’
‘Kiss me.’
‘No.’
‘Kiss me.’
‘No.’
Each of his defiant refusals is an admission that he is still there.
‘Kiss me.’
Silence
‘Kiss me.’
Silence
‘Kiss me.’
Silence and she withers in her poetic licence, disgraced disgracefully.

He could examine his nails. She could scratch her eyebrow. He could flick a suddenly noticed speck of detritus from his leg. She could twirl her hair around her finger. He could take off his glasses and clean them. She could run her tongue over her teeth … Neither will know the minutiae of the actions of the other, or feel the hostile attention of the other, or sense with absolute certainty the movement of the other, because the other is not there, the other is unavailable, the other is the other, separate, separated.

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Nov 8

4116

spitting mad doesn't cover it.  insanely furious.  so fucking annoyed that i'm shaking.  what's the matter with people?

here you go:-
12th september phoned the manufacturer of my computer because it didn't work properly – computer at this point is six months old.
20th september the manufacturer finally picks up the damn machine after i've spent a week pissing about with software resets and installs.  they say it should be approximately a 14 day turnaround.
4th november and i eventually get my machine back.  obviously, in the intervening six weeks i've been phoning them up, asking what's going on, wondering why even though i've paid for a repair my computer still isn't back witih me
7th november the fucking computer is showing the same fault that i originally reported on 12th september.  so, six weeks and over £100 and i'm back to square one.  i phone the manufacturer again.  on past performance it could be a further six weeks to 'fix' it again.  that would mean that for a third of the time i have owned the machine it will have been away being repaired.

of course they apologise, but what fucking use is that?  what a shitty way to treat a customer.  even now, while typing this, i've been on the telephone being told 'please hold the line, your call will be put through to the next available agent'.  if i could drag that agent down the line, turn him or her inside out, rip off his or her head and shit down his or her neck i would.  this is all unrequired stress.

bloody, fucking computers and crappy customer care.  this is how people end up on drink fuelled rampages with shotguns.  what's the point of trying to resolve anything cos the bastards constantly operate as if you're some sort of scum that they need to get rid of rather than accomodate.

pissed off

really pissed off

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Nov 4

3813

testing testing

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Nov 4

bloody hallucinations

I don't want to write about me anymore
I'm boring
Not fucked up enough

People talk to me.  I know this is happening because their lips move and their flesh covered skulls bob up and down.  He hands me the pint and I realise I have forgotten what should happen next. 

His eyes are funny, too turned down, too far apart, his entire face is trying to escape into his cheekbones.  Perhaps his forehead will peel like old wet wallpaper and there will be a new him revealed, lighter, brighter, fresher, with skin like a baby's bottom.  Maybe I can effect this change.'Cillit Bang.'  I say it so loudly and abruptly that he starts … starts to peel away.  At first it is a filmy substance, like the glaze of an eye, it wafts through the air and settles on the surface of the bar, sticky and glistening.  I had always thought that the smears were spilled beer and greasy handprints, but now I discover that it is human slough that createss the organic sheen.  His droopy eyes are still smiling indifferently.  He thinks I can't see what is happening to him, how his skin is liquifying and sliding down his face.

His lips receed and his teeth begin to protrude grotesquely as his tongue dries and rasps over them.  His eyes are turning to jelly, squishy lumps that shine.  I lean over the bar and pluck one from his face and pop it into my mouth, it squelches against my teeth before exploding into a mass of mucoid juice.

He is still smiling as black puss runs from his nostrils, his nose is collapsing, the soft gristle gives way until I can see the empty cavity of his head.  He reaches up to scratch his ear, my staring at his disintegration is obviously confusing him, his ear flakes like a fillet of fish and smatters his clothed shoulder blades with fleshy dandruff.  He shuffles uncomfortably and his other eyeballs drops from his skull, like a pulpy marble, and plops onto the floor, he is now looking at me out of empty holes and I can see his rapidly liquifying brain.

'Will there be anything else?'

I shut my eyes slowly and when I open them again he has been reconstructed.

'No, no thankyou.' I stutter, and he moves off to serve another customer.

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Nov 4

up a lamp post


up a lamp post
Originally uploaded by the morrigan.

a great shot

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